Page 44 of Wynns of Change
It took a couple of tries for Selma to leverage her weight, wheeling Harlow up the garage steps backwards and into the house. She parked her near the bar area and then left to track down Robert.
Harlow watched her leave, whispering a small prayer under her breath. She didn’t want to deceive her husband, but he needed a reality check. Would he man up and offer to care for her or leave her high and dry like he had before?
Quick steps echoed in the hallway. Selma appeared with Robert close behind.
He abruptly stopped when he saw her sitting in the wheelchair. “What the…what happened?”
“I had a relapse. It appears I may have overdone it.” Harlow fibbed and told him she’d been having sharp pains in her legs. “They’re getting worse. Last night was horrible. I went to the ER. The doctor seems to think my muscle contusions haven’t completely healed. He wants me to follow up with a specialist.”
The color drained from her husband’s face. “You can’t walk…at all?”
“Not without pain.” For good measure, Harlow winced. “I planned to fly back to Michigan, but traveling will be tricky. I figure I’ll hang around here with you until I’m mobile again. Hopefully, it will only be a few weeks.”
“Only a f-few weeks,” he stammered. “Here, in the house?”
“I will stay and care for you, Harlow,” Selma offered.
“Y-yes.” Robert nervously licked his lips. “I’m sure Selma can help.”
“Selma has a family of her own to care for. You’re here, Robert. It’s a part of being married.” Harlow reiterated her injuries were only temporary.
“You said the same thing before and look at you. You’re almost back to square one.” Robert paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. “I’m not a good caregiver. Either Selma helps or we hire someone to come in.”
Harlow steered the wheelchair directly into her husband’s path, forcing him to stop. “I thought you wanted to work things out.”
“I want our marriage to work, but this…isn’t what I had in mind,” he said. “I suppose it depends on how much help you need. Are you needing help from the wheelchair to bed? I can chauffeur you around for your appointments until you’re on your feet again.”
“Help from bed to chair. Help in leaving the house. We might need to build a temporary ramp, similar to the one my father built.”
Robert’s face turned ghostly white. “A handicapped ramp?”
“For the wheelchair,” she patiently explained.
“If the paparazzi find out, they’ll have a field day.”
“Maybe they’ll think something happened to you this time.”
“What a terrible thing to say,” he gasped. “I can’t believe this happened. Again.”
“At least I didn’t crash my car. I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet soon.”
“Until the next relapse. Maybe you’ll always have muscle contusions and be in and out of wheelchairs for the rest of your life.” Robert reached out to steady himself.
Harlow almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Harlow. Maybe trying to work things out isn’t such a good idea. You need someone who can handle injuries…illness…whatever your future holds.” Robert began backing toward the door, an unreadable expression on his face. “Selma, you keep an eye on Harlow. I just remembered, I have an appointment and need to get going.”
Gripping both sides of the wheelchair, Harlow slowly stood. She crossed the room, not wincing, not wobbling, merely walking in a straight line. “You told me everything I need to know.”
A look of surprise flitted across her husband’s face. “You haven’t had a relapse?”
“No. This performance was for you.”
Robert’s jaw tightened. CLAP…CLAP…CLAP. He clapped his hands. “A performance worthy of an Oscar, my dear. Kudos to you.”
“A performance to open both of our eyes—both yours and mine.”
Robert spun on his heel and walked out of the house without looking back.
